“That kind of protection must be rather expensive,” said Lyman.
“I’d pay anything to ensure our safety. Yes,” he went on, holding up a hand, “I know what you’re thinking. You believe that the firm providing the bodyguard might have deliberately frightened me in order to get my business—that was my first thought as well. I’m a lawyer, remember. I check and double-check everything. I had one of my clerks look very closely at this firm and it turned out to be entirely trustworthy. It’s run by a man of proven integrity. I can’t speak more highly of him.”
“In that case, perhaps I should recommend him to Mr. Culver.”
“That’s for you to decide. I’m not here to advertise the firm. All I know is that they’ve helped my wife and me to sleep more peacefully at night. Nobody can put a price on that.”
“Do you have the address of this firm, Mr. Hazelhurst?”
“Yes,” said the lawyer, opening a drawer to search inside it. “I have a business card somewhere. Ah—here we are,” he went on, taking out a card and offering it. “The office is not in the most salubrious part of the city, but don’t be put off by appearances.”
“I never am,” said Lyman, getting up to take the card from him. “Thank you, Mr. Hazelhurst. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Please give my warmest regards to Culver.”
“I’ll make a point of doing so, sir.”
“How badly was he injured?”
“I think his pride was hurt as much as his body. It just never crossed his mind that such a thing could happen to him. However, he seems to be a resilient man. I fancy that he’ll be back on his feet again before too long.”
~ * ~
Matthew Steen was a muscular young man in his twenties with a shock of red hair and a tufted beard. His fondness for whiskey, allied to a short temper, had got him into many tavern brawls, and his broken nose was a vivid memento of one of them. Steen did a variety of jobs, but his main source of income was Jeb Lyman. While he knew the man’s weaknesses, the detective also appreciated his many strengths. Steen was alert, tenacious, and fearless. More to the point, he was very reliable.
Lyman found him at his lodging, chopping wood in the garden. Having built up a rhythm, Steen was splitting the timber with power and accuracy. When he saw his friend, he broke off.
“You’ve got work for me, Mr. Lyman?” he asked, hopefully.
“Yes, Matt,” said the other with a friendly smile. “It’s rather more subtle than swinging an axe. I need you to apply for a job.”
“But I’m already employed by you.”
Taking out the business card given to him by Hazelhurst, the detective explained what he wanted. Steen liked what he heard. It was the sort of assignment that appealed to him. He did, however, foresee a potential problem.
“What if they offer me a job?” he said, worriedly. “I can hardly turn it down.”
“They won’t do that,” Lyman promised. “Even if they considered taking you on, they’d want to make inquiries about you first and your criminal record would deter them.”
“I’m not a real criminal, Mr. Lyman.”
“I know, Matt, but the fact remains that you’ve seen the inside of the Tombs a number of times—mostly, I grant you, for being drunk and disorderly, but there was that sentence you served for wrecking all the furniture in a tavern.”
“That was a mistake,” claimed Steen. “They arrested the wrong man. All I did was to break a few chairs over people’s heads.”
“Be that as it may,” said Lyman, “a firm like this one will think twice about employing someone with your history. If—that is—they’re as thorough and honest as I’m led to believe. That’s your first task. Sniff out the place. See if it really is a legitimate business. Even though it’s not the prettiest part of your anatomy, you have a nose for villainy. Use it.”
“What else must I do?”
“Get a sample of Barnett Lovell’s handwriting. According to that card, he runs the firm. If my guess is right, some of the people on his payroll can barely write their names. Their assets are more physical.”
“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Lyman.”
“Come to my office in two hours. I should be back by then.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the offices of the New York Times,” said Lyman. “I need to look at an advertisement.”
~ * ~
Matt Steen was punctual. He arrived on time at Lyman’s office and wore a broad grin. Sensing that his friend had good news to report, the detective poured them both a shot of whiskey. Steen threw his down in one grateful gulp.
“I didn’t need my famous nose,” he said. “My eyes saw what kind of a business it was right away. As I walked towards the office, I saw someone leaving that I recognized.”
“Who was it?”
“One of the guards from the Tombs—a vicious thug who liked to beat up prisoners for fun. I was always on the fourth tier where those of us charged with lesser offenses were kept. O’Gara made our lives a misery, I can tell you.”
“O’Gara?” echoed Lyman. “He was Irish?”
“As Irish as they come,” replied Steen, “but so was Mr. Lovell, though his accent was much slighter. I think he must have kissed the Blarney stone, because he had the gift of the gab, but O’Gara gave him away. If he’s employing someone like that, then it’s to do Lovell’s dirty work. It’s all that cruel Irish bastard is fit for.”
“Did you get a specimen of Lovell’s handwriting?”
“I did indeed. When I asked for a job, he turned me down, saying that he already had enough men on his books. So I told him I was desperate for work of any kind and that I’d be grateful if he could suggest anywhere else I could try.” Steen fished a piece of paper from his inside pocket. “He gave me an address of a warehouse on the Lower East Side. He said they might be able to use a pair of strong arms there.” He passed the paper to Lyman. “This is what he wrote.”
“Well done, Matt,” said the detective, taking out the note that had been sent to Culver that morning. “I can now put a theory of mine to the test.” Placing the two pieces of paper side by side, he beckoned Steen closer. “What do you think?”
“It looks like the same hand, Mr. Lyman.”
“It is the same hand—I swear it!”
“What does that prove?”
“It proves that Barnett Lovell is just as big a liar as a lawyer called William Hazelhurst. That’s exactly what I expected.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, Matt, they’re in this together. It’s the reason I sent you to Lovell’s office. I had a feeling that Hazelhurst would send someone on ahead of me to warn his partner that I was coming. Lovell would’ve been on guard. He’d be less suspicious of you.”
“What was that business about an advertisement?”
“I had a very productive visit to the newspaper offices. I not only found the advertisement for Lovell’s firm in a back copy of the Times, I discovered the name of the person who’s placed it there once a month since Christmas.”
“Oh—and who was that, Mr. Lyman?”
“William Hazelhurst—clear proof they’re in this together.”
“I thought you said that this man was a lawyer.”
“He’s obviously found richer pickings on the other side of the law,” said Lyman, thinking it through. “My guess is that he chooses the targets very carefully. They’re wealthy men like Mr. Culver who are first given a warning, then a beating. Since they know that Hazelhurst hires a bodyguard, they’re likely to turn to him for advice, and what does he do?”
“He recommends Lovell’s firm.”
“And the victims pay up without realizing that their money is going to the very people responsible for the attack on them. As for keeping an eye on their properties at night, Lovell doesn’t bother to do that. He withdraws the threat by standing one of his men—O’Gara, probably—down. It’s easy money. I wonder how many frig
htened men are paying up.”
“Are you going to report all of this to the police, Mr. Lyman?”
“No, Matt, we don’t have enough evidence yet. Hazelhurst is a slippery customer and so is Lovell, by the sound of him. We need to catch them red-handed.”
“How do we do that?”
“I think I know a way,” said Lyman, thoughtfully. “We’ll bide our time. We’ll wait until they play right into our hands.”
Steen beamed. “We’ll do just that,” he said, obediently, “but, while we’re waiting, is there any chance I could have another shot of that whiskey?”
~ * ~
Henry Culver was not a man to hide his injuries. As soon as he felt well enough to get up again, he returned to work and braved both the physical discomfort and the horrified stares of his employees at the bank. In less than a fortnight after the attack, he was sufficiently recovered to accept an invitation to dine with some of the bank’s directors. His wife, Maria, pleaded with him not to go, but Culver was not dissuaded by her tears. He insisted on joining the others at a leading restaurant in the city.
“But the brute who attacked you might still be out there,” said Maria with concern. “I’d hoped that Mr. Lyman would have caught him by now but he has no notion of who the man can be.”
“Don’t lose faith in Mr. Lyman, dear,” cautioned her husband. “I have the greatest confidence in the fellow.”
“Come home early,” she begged, “and travel with someone else.”
He gave her a farewell kiss. “Goodbye, Maria. There’s no cause for alarm. I intend to return safe and sound.”
It was an enjoyable meal. The food was delicious, the wine flowed freely, and Culver joined his companions in a cigar as they traded anecdotes about the financial world. When he left the convivial atmosphere of the restaurant, he was in a buoyant mood. He did not even see the horseman who was watching him from nearby and who waited until Culver had climbed into his cab before he kicked his mount into a canter.
~ * ~
Arriving in the street minutes before the cab, the man had time to tether his horse and take up his position. He pulled his hat down low and tightened his grasp on the cudgel. He heard the approaching cab well before it came into sight as the horse’s hooves echoed down the long, empty thoroughfare. The vehicle pulled up outside the Culver residence and the passenger got out, tottering slightly. He paid the driver and the cab pulled slowly away. It was the moment to strike. The man rushed out of the shadows with his weapon held high.
But the assault was anticipated. Swinging round to face his attacker, the intended victim threw off his top hat and raised his cane to defend himself. Even in the half-dark, O’Gara could see that the man was not Henry Culver.
“Who the divil are ye?” he demanded, closing in.
“I’m an old friend of yours, Mr. O’Gara,” said Matthew Steen, slashing him across the face with the cane, then kicking him hard in the crotch. “Remember me?”
Doubling up in pain, O’Gara cursed aloud then found the strength to swing his cudgel with murderous force. Steen ducked quickly beneath it and, dropping his cane, used both fists to deliver a relay of punches to the head and body. Dazed and bloodied, O’Gara staggered backwards. He was grabbed firmly from behind by Jeb Lyman, who’d been posing as the cabman and had stopped his vehicle a short distance away so that he could run back. In no time at all, the detective snapped a pair of handcuffs onto the Irishman’s wrists, pinning his arms behind his back.
“I know ye,” growled O’Gara, glaring at Steen.
“There’s something else you’ll know,” retorted Steen with grim satisfaction. “You’re going to know what it’s like on the other side of the bars at the Tombs—because that’s where you and your friends will end up.”
~ * ~
By the time Culver returned, much later, in another cab, it was all over. Liam O’Gara was in police custody and warrants had been issued for the arrest of William Hazelhurst and Barnett Lovell. The banker lapsed into a rare moment of generosity, praising Lyman for his expertise and paying him twice the agreed fee. Because it was Steen who tackled the man responsible for Culver’s beating, he was given a sizeable reward. A protection ring had been smashed, and the streets of the neighborhood were safe once more.
“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Lyman,” said Culver, pumping his hand. “I’d recommend you to anybody.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the detective. “Matt and I are always ready to take on any assignment. Just remember that prevention is better than the cure.”
The banker frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“You should’ve come to me when you received that first warning letter. Then we could’ve taken steps to ensure that you were never given that beating. It’s always much more satisfying to nip a crime in the bud. That way,” said Lyman, pointedly, “the only person who gets hurt is the villain.”
<
~ * ~
CONFESSION
Paula Williams
T
his is the full written confession of Trevor Montgomery Pringle, aged fifty-five, of - well, there’s not a lot of point me putting my address down because Trevor Montgomery Pringle is going away for a long, long time.
It’s funny but I never really thought of what I was doing as stealing, more a question of building up my pension fund. It was, after all, the only one I was likely to get, in spite of the fact I’d worked for Fraddon and Son (Construction) Ltd for most of my adult life.
So I preferred to think of what I did more along the line of a redistribution of assets. And if that sounds like accountant-speak, that’s because I am one. Or rather I was, for thirty-six tedious years.
But to be honest - and, in spite of everything, I am an honest chap - I’m not exactly an accountant. I’m what you’d call “qualified by experience”. But I never took any exams or had any letters after my name, which was Roger Fraddon’s excuse for paying me peanuts all those years.
“Let’s face it, Trev,” he said, back in the early days when I was still naive enough to believe him when he promised that next year my rise would be The Big One. “I pay you a fair wage considering you’re nothing more than a glorified bookkeeper. And, of course,” he jingled the loose change in his pocket, narrowed his eyes and looked challengingly at me, “if you don’t like it, you can always leave.”
Funny he should say that because my wife, Sandra, was always on at me to leave Fraddon’s.
“Why don’t you get yourself a job that pays a decent wage?” she grumbled when I got home, late as usual, one evening. “What you earn isn’t enough to keep me in shoes and handbags.”
I stopped myself from pointing out that David Beckham probably didn’t earn enough to keep her in shoes, handbags and anything else that took her fancy. It would only have caused an argument and Sandra doesn’t like arguments when she’s having one of her heads.
“That Roger Fraddon takes advantage of you,” she said as I placed her supper tray - two eggs, lightly boiled, with bread and butter soldiers with the crusts cut off - on her lap so that she could watch EastEnders.
But how could I leave Fraddon’s when there was old Bert Netherton to consider? Bert was night watchman at a disused fish-packing factory that Roger’s father Arnold (now sadly no longer with us, having suffered a massive heart attack in the arms of the local floozy back in 1997) had once taken in lieu of payment on a re-roofing job that went over budget.
If I left, Roger, who was a bit casual when it came to what he contemptuously described as the “boring bits” of the business, such as staff welfare, wages and benefits, would look into files he hadn’t looked in for years, discover the fish factory and want to develop it as luxury living for the discerning executive in a prime waterfront location. Poor old Bert would be history.
So I stayed - even when Roger took advantage not of me but my Sandra. Not that she minded being taken advantage of, because one Thursday morning, when I was u
p to my ears in lintels and roof trusses, it being the annual stocktake, she packed all her shoes and handbags and anything else she could stuff into half a dozen suitcases and moved in with Roger.
Things were surprisingly pleasant after Sandra and her shoes moved out. Not only did I gain space in the wardrobe, it meant I never had to watch another episode of EastEnders or The Apprentice ever again. I also started spending time at Bert’s. Sitting on his front porch, watching the sun go down across the water, was very relaxing after a long day at the office.
After that, things rubbed along smoothly enough for a few years and nothing much changed at work, apart from the fact that I stopped asking Roger for a rise. I figured that now he had to keep Sandra in shoes and handbags, he probably needed the money more than I did.
The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10 Page 29
